


Hope Here Needs a Humble Hand

by writinwaters (Anithene)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Complete, Drabble, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:59:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4976377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anithene/pseuds/writinwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He speaks her people’s tongue like it was made only to fit his mouth, to flow from his lips; its cadence draws a haze over her frantic mind, calms the rapids of her blood to a gentle wave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope Here Needs a Humble Hand

He is an asshole.

An arrogant, self-inflated asshole, who likely only bothers to speak with her to hear himself talk.

Malfinneth thinks this, yet keeps going back, because he’s the only familiar thing in this place, in this new, chaotic world. He speaks her people’s tongue like it was made only to fit his mouth, to flow from his lips; its cadence draws a haze over her frantic mind, calms the rapids of her blood to a gentle wave.

She realizes with a start that he’s stopped talking, looking to her expectantly. The edge of his mouth is tipped in the barest of smirks, and suddenly her pulse is back to a rage.

“The hell are you smirking about?”

His smirk is gone, though there’s a delighted sparkle in his eyes, like the snow around them. They stand outside Haven’s tavern, mid-afternoon light spilling in golden slats through the clouds.

“I asked if your quarters suited you. As I understand, the Dalish do not often sleep under a roof.”

Her eyes narrow, full brows scrunching together.

“If you’re trying to flirt, you’re doing a terrible job.”

That earns her a laugh - it’s surprisingly light, warm like a mouthful of rich cider. It catches her off guard, pulls her brows up in surprise. It’s a lovely laugh, for a man with his head up his ass.

“No. I am not so crass.”

It’s her turn to smirk. It lifts her eyes, stretches the scar running along the corner of her mouth. Her head cants to the side, so the sunlight catches the threads of her white-gold hair.

“Oh? So your flirting is more subtle, I take it?”

His shoulders unknit, hips loosening. It’s subtle, the flicker of a candle, and those not trained to see such things wouldn’t have noticed. There’s a note in his voice she hasn’t heard before, black like the waters of a well.

“This is conversation between acquaintances. If I were flirting with you, we would need to be more than that, don’t you think?”

Her teeth clack shut. There’s heat building under the collar of her tunic,  threatening to breach the edge, up her neck. 

“Well, I,” her throat is dry, “Yes. I suppose we would.”

His insufferable smirk is back. He makes no effort to hide it this time, Malfinneth’s eyes stuck on it, on the graceful bow it makes along his lower lip.

“Then perhaps we should venture further before that begins. After all, one wouldn’t want to think the Herald of Andraste is too...forward.”

 _Too forward,_ she thinks, her gaze sweeping him up and down,  _Old man, you have no idea how_ forward _I can be._

If Solas notices her lingering stare, he doesn’t say. The wind picks up, sending a flurry of snow all around them, lifting her hair off her shoulders, passing her cheek in a chilling sweep. He stands among it, unperturbed, though she catches his own eyes trailing where her hair lifts from her neck. She meets his eyes, and smiles, a bold grin which reveals the line of her teeth.

“It’s getting cold,” he offers, stiffly, shoulders hiking back up. It’s not shame or embarrassment which changes his posture, she knows, it’s something else, something she can’t put to words. “Perhaps you should go inside, get some rest.”

Her smile remains steadfast. “That would be nice,” Malfinneth aggrees, turning. She adds a deliberate sway to her hips as she does, the one her Keeper tutted her for using against the clan boys. Her heart soars in triumph when she feels his eyes trail after her as she goes.

“By the by,” she tosses over one shoulder, “Yes, I do enjoy my new quarters. The bed is very comfortable.”

With that, Malfinneth leaves him, entering the tavern to the sound of soldiers singing some ballad, slurred as it is by their inebriation. She pays no mind to the stares as she settles down into a chair, watching the people, her chin resting upon her marked hand.

She settles into a chair and orders a drink, not daring to glance out a window to see if he’s still standing there, with his bare feet and insufferable smirk. Malfinneth knows one thing, if nothing else: Solas is an asshole, yes, with an ego the size of the Void, but he makes her smile, makes her feel a little less lost in this unfamiliar place.

Hours later, when she settles into her bed, pulls the thick covers over herself, she smiles, thinking of the first little ember between them, wonders how much brighter it can grow.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written very much for Malfinneth. This was something that came to me out of the blue, and since I'd really like to develop Malfinneth more, I'll probably do more of such drabbles in the future.


End file.
